Mircea
by Red Star
Summary: In a dark castle, one cannot help but remember the past...


**MIRCEA**

By Red Star

The sky had dropped a great white blanket upon the Carpathian Mountains; the smaller animals had by now burrowed themselves into warmer parts of the forest, trying to hide themselves from his children.

A soft chime echoed through the room at the top of a turreted tower. For a moment he did not move; his eyes unwilling to leave the virgin snow, untouched by wolf paw or human boot. It was a matter of inner peace.

_A ball of cold fluff hits him in the back of the head. Their father appears at the window, looking down with a smile and sad eyes._

Vlad Dracula, Prince of Wallachia, shook his head and descended a black-iron spiral staircase and then walked over to an iron sculpted wolf's head extended beside the door. In its mouth hung a silver ring, behind which was a smooth silver circle set into the wolf's iron neck. An index figure, long and white with a sharp claw-like nail pressed against the ring, tapping against the circle and triggering an answering chime. He then moved toward his large oak desk in front of a large, old fashioned map of a region that is now known as Romania, framed in laurelled gold and bearing the symbols of the various princes of the lands of that time.

The Wallachian Black Eagle was set beside the Moldavian arms, a personal courtesy as Dracula had little love for the treacherous bastard family that had ruled _that _realm. When the map was new, he had almost ripped the seal from the paper with his claws.

The tower study was a room that-thankfully-the British solicitor from a hundred years before had never found. The tower was round and so was the study. A balcony lined with red carpet went around the study, allowing an occupant to look out over the lands surrounding the castle through massive windows.

The study was lined with bookcases and glass-enclosed cases with various items he had collected throughout the centuries. Dracula's black marble-inlaid desk was dark colored and large enough for his six-foot, four inch frame to stretch out upon. He sat in an excruciatingly carved chair with crimson cushions and a black frame with dragons carved into several places.

A discreet knock informed him that his guests had arrived. 

"Come," he barked.

Two men and a woman in dark clothing entered. All of them differed widely in age, personality, and relationship to him.

Bruno Revnovic's bald head towered over even Dracula's tall frame. His hands were pale and strong, callused by years of slavery and the duties of royal executioner; his nails were like the talons of a bird-of-prey and he sometimes whittled little figures out of wood as gifts. The man had to have his clothing specially prepared by the Draculesti Group's best tailors and shoemakers. Bruno smoked cigars even when it was unfashionable, and he always carried a case of them in his jacket wherever he traveled. 

Lord Dominic Ruthven was of average height and looked the most human of the group, except for his hypnotic gray eyes. His elegantly tailored suit-he had been purchasing his suits from the same establishment for over a hundred years-had a lily attached to his left lapel. In his right hand he carried a briefcase.

Finally, there was Constantia Temiros-Connie. A gypsy, his first convert; she handled Breathing affairs for the Order of the Dragon, Dracula's apparatus for controlling the vampire world. She preferred to keep a youthful look, barely out of teenage years. Connie was a short, happy creature who tried to keep up with the latest fashions and had been very successful in luring some programs into the Order's web. Though she preferred "happier colors," she wore black when in Dracula's presence as a gesture to his almost uniform choice of clothing color.

Connie flashed a brief smile before adopting a neutral look. The Prince wondered idly whether Bruno saw this and what kind of trouble Connie might get into. Of the three, Bruno was closest to Vlad Dracula, but he was also the one who insisted on the highest respect for Dracula. He referred to the Prince as "Vlad", but only infrequently.

He stood and held out his hand, smiling as he spoke in his dark voice, "Welcome, my friends."

Bruno bowed slightly, followed by his two companions. At a wave of Dracula's hand, the three took seats facing him across the desk.

"Your Highness, Sovereign and Prince of Wallachia; we bring news from your countless subjects across the world."

It was something of a tradition for Bruno to say that, and Dracula knew it stemmed from a loyalty and devotion so deep it may as well be carved into the man's heart. Though Wallachia no longer existed, both men had fought so long and so hard for their homeland that it would live forever in them, though their bodies no longer drew breath.

After that, Ruthven launched into a long description of the various struggles going on in the vampire world, minor and major. Clans were competing for influence in Africa and wilder parts of Asia. The Prince of Kabul hadn't been heard from in eight days, and the Taliban had started trying to attack the vampire community in Afghanistan. A pack of werewolves had been forced to relocate from California after one of their young went wild and killed a boy in Sacremento, and the local vampire "Vets"-as those assigned to look after  lycanthropes were called-had to create a trailer park in  Nevada virtually from scratch to house the poor souls. 

Dracula asked questions and jotted down some notes. He then gave his subordinates instructions: for every vampire sent to the True Death, two family members of a Taliban official were to be killed; the chief vampire was to be found immediately; and all Handlers were to repeat warnings to their assigned packs not to attract _any_ kind of attention.and also that the Order of the Dragon was free to kill any werewolf that purposely disobeyed the decree.

Thinking that the meeting was finished, Dracula's right hand moved to a drawer that held a box of cigars and some fine cigarettes-Dracula, Ruthven, and Bruno were all chain-smokers, Connie would only light a few gold-tipped cigarettes from time to time-when he heard Bruno clear his throat. He turned his attention back to his old friend; the large man had suddenly produced a file folder in his right hand, and he was tapping his left hand on his knee, a sign of emotional discomfort.

"Is there something else, Bruno?"

The former chief executioner regarded his two companions coolly, and then slid the folder onto Dracula's desk. The Prince of Wallachia picked it up and opened it.

Grisly photographs and autopsy reports from somewhere in the Greater London area greeted him. A corpse with half of its head torn off lay on a white sheet. Another man gazed up at the camera, his face and eyes frozen in a mask of horror. A face that he immediately recognized stared out, though its right eye socket completely destroyed by a bullet. 

The autopsy reports had highlighted portions and were all signed by a Dr. Edmund Cheston. That name also rang a clear bell: he was one of the government servants in the secret employ of that damned organization.

Prince Dracula shut the folder and tossed it onto his desk. His long nails began tapping on his armrests as he stared at the file-and seemingly through it to the contents within. 

Suddenly, he stood up.

"Thank you, my friends;" he said in his dark voice, "You are free to go,"

"Sir." Ruthven began, but Dracula had already turned and was heading for the iron stairs.

The two younger vampires looked at Bruno, who waved them toward the door. As they left, Bruno walked to the stairs and headed up.

Dracula had crossed to the windows opposite the stairs, and Bruno walked around.

The Lord of Vampires had clasped his hands behind him, and he was gazing out at the snow gently falling on the roofs and towers. Bruno quietly approached from behind.

"So.he has returned."

Bruno was expressionless, "It appears to be so. We do not have confirmation from any of our operatives yet."

"No. It is he. Even after twenty years, I would recognize his work anywhere."

The two vampires were silent for a moment, before Bruno spoke again.

"One of our foot-agents was making his regular pass when he saw the meat truck leave the manor."

Dracula huffed in dark amusement; he knew that Quincy Morris' Beef Company was a front to allow Hellsing's troops to move around England when a particularly delicate operation called for supreme stealth. No doubt the truck carried the bodies of the treacherous elder Hellsing and his thugs.

"One of their specially armored cars had driven into the gates about an hour before. We've assumed that it was the attendant, Walter.

"No one has left the manor since."

Dracula was silent. His eyes had not left the snow.

"It was my fault that he vanished."

Bruno blinked and leaned over, trying to look into Dracula's face.

"My lord?"

"It was my fault. I.I had tried to draw him out. It was not particularly difficult; you know how those Midians can get so bloody excited. I managed to corral the fighting so that casualties were kept to a minimum. Sir Hellsing sent his top agent-naturally-and he killed all of the miserable creatures-also naturally-and he was.grinning all the while.

"I appeared after he had finished, and I tried to speak to him. Ah, my friend;" Dracula sighed wearily, "he heard me but my words did not penetrate. He refused to listen; he would not even remember with me."

Dracula seemed to age all of his years as he spoke. He had outlived all of his family, even his grandchildren, and he had felt a little sting with each vanished bloodline.

"In the end, he emptied his weapon into my chest. Then he flew away as that great cloud of bats.

"It has been twenty years."

Bruno frowned and asked, "Vlad; what did you say to him?"

"That his master did not respect him. That he did not deserve such treatment. That we should not be fighting each other.and he laughed," Dracula shook his head sadly, "it occurred to me that he enjoys the killing that his position demands."

The two men stood silently, watching the snow begin to fall more heavily now.

"Perhaps you'll have another chance, Vlad; the heir is a little girl."

Dracula sighed sadly, almost painfully.

"No, Bruno; I think not. Because of what he said to me before vanishing for two decades."

"What is that?"

"He said to me, 'My name is not Mircea. My name is Alucard.'"

The wind outside began to howl, as the snowstorm rose to drench the Carpathians in a thicker blanket of ice.

Prince Vlad Dracula sniffed indignantly.

"Obviously, a British attempt at humor."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hellsing does not belong to me. It belongs to some Japanese guy.

Mircea Dracula was the oldest official son of Vlad Dracul, having been born in 1428; three years before the birth of his more famous (and controversial) brother, Vlad III, also known as Vlad Tepes or Vlad Dracula. 

Mircea died at the hands of treasonous noblemen in 1447. By that time, he was an experienced warrior and crusader against the Turkish army invading Eastern Europe.

I wrote this to offer an alternate theory to Alucard's identity.


End file.
